


Requiem for a Violin in D Minor

by MyRubicon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 22:30:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17692331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyRubicon/pseuds/MyRubicon
Summary: Post- TFP. Sherlock's musings on his lost Stradivarius - a character study.





	Requiem for a Violin in D Minor

**Author's Note:**

> These are just words where there should actually be music; in Sherlock's mind, it is.

She was a Stradivarius, handcrafted by one of the most renowned craftsmen in his own time and centuries later still, a beautiful, unique masterpiece, unsurpassed and with only few her equal in this world.

She was his. But now she is dust and ashes, burnt by a sister he hadn't remembered for years. Now that he does recall, it isn't really much of an enrichment of his life, to be honest.

 

In truth, Eurus has always been spiteful.

She's never understood laughter, but she's always felt jealousy.

He had a friend once and she didn't, and so she killed Victor. And when they looked at her full of disgust and fear, she tried to kill them all, tried to burn them to death, reduce them to dust and ashes. For all of her brilliance, Eurus has never been terribly clever or creative.

 

She was a Stradivarius, a gift from Mycroft, a pompous, overbearing, intrusive git, a caring brother who didn't know how to best express his affection and concern. A brother whom Sherlock had tried to push away time and again and who had yet never failed to be there when he needed him. A brother who had confronted him far too often with his failures and wrong choices, disapproving, helpless, sad, and yet had, at a time where Sherlock was addicted to expensive drugs and prone to destructive behaviour, trusted him enough to keep this precious violin safe. And he had.

 

She was a Stradivarius, and he's not always been kind to her. He's tortured her with dissonant screeches until the horsehair of her bow frayed. But he's also played music worthy of her, and he's composed his own, guided and supported by her familiar touch and sound. During the dramatic ups and downs of his life, she's never been far from his hands and his heart, the heart that he only professed not to have.

And now she's gone, and he feels that he's lost a very dear friend.

 

Mycroft has purchased a Vuillaume for him. She's lovely, she sounds as warm as velvet and as clear as the stars. But she's not the familiar Stradivarius, the one who fit so comfortably under his chin, the one whose fretboard was so well-known to his fingers that he could have played her in his sleep, in his dreams. Perhaps he did.

World-class instruments are not readily available on the market, and Mycroft had to exert quite a bit of influence and cash in several favours to procure the Vuillaume. It was kind of him, especially during the mess that followed the DX-707 incident and all the hectic, scrambling work it has caused the British government. It was kind and generous and perceptive of him to see Sherlock's loss and grief where no-one else did, and to express his condolences in the way that comes easiest to him, by way of worldly possessions.

But even if Mycroft had managed to lay hands on another Stradivarius – and Sherlock, knowing his brother, is certain that he must have tried – it still wouldn't have been her, his old and trusty friend. The Vuillaume and he will become friends in time, he's certain of it.

And yet... and yet...

She's not his Stradivarius. She will never be.

 

His Stradivarius was, during the best and worst of times of his life, the symbol of the one sort of integrity he has never turned his back on, the one field where he has proven himself to be consistently dedicated and worthy. His music is not lost to him. Her sounds and smells and the feeling of smooth wood and organic strings will remain with him forever.

He has not lost his music, he has not lost her memory. In his Mind Palace, but mostly in his heart, she is still his.

 

Eurus has no comprehension of the true weight and scope of her transgression, of the uniqueness of the irreplaceable treasure she has so carelessly destroyed. She plays a Stradivarius herself, also a gift of their older brother. For her, it was never about inner strength, about integrity or even about the music; it's simply a symbol of the hoops she has made Mycroft jump through for her. She has never loved her Stradivarius. She doesn't understand what love is; she never has and never will. She would, if asked, and if she could be bothered to talk, perhaps speak about her violin's high quality as befitting her musical talent, but she doesn't comprehend love and she certainly doesn't feel it. She also thinks integrity and devotion are for lesser beings, weaker than her. She does understand, though, that she is the only one in their family playing a Stradivarius, now that she has reduced Sherlock's to ashes, and she is content with that. She doesn't realise that her playing may be mechanically perfect but that it lacks the heart it needs to ever achieve true brilliance. She doesn't understand that with her disregard towards the two violins, both his and hers, she has proven herself utterly unworthy of the fine instrument she holds. She may play it for now, but it isn't hers and it never will be.

 

She won't ever understand that Sherlock doesn't envy her that Stradivarius that never was his and never will be, either. She does understand jealousy, or thinks that she does because it is one of the very few emotions she can experience for herself, and to play with him, she on her Stradivarius and he on his Vuillaume, satisfies her.

Sherlock remembers his promise to her, and he pities her for her limitations, and so he keeps visiting and giving her that small satisfaction. It costs him nothing; his price has already been paid in full. There is no need to rage at her; one might just as well rage at a fire or a flood for all the good it will do. Eurus doesn't require forgiveness, and so he will not extend it. Neither will he ever forget.

 

She gluts herself on the melancholy undertones of his music, but she will never understand. She plays his composition with him, this requiem for his lost friend, and she perfectly comprehends the musical theory involved and the underlying mathematics to the tiniest detail. She can even sense his sadness, but she will never resonate with the music's soul, because she is blind to that. Sherlock, though, grieves and remembers, and contained in his heart, there is a wellspring of sensations, sounds and memories that Eurus can never touch, taint or take away.

He plays this duet in D Minor with her, but soon, he will leave the sadly barren, disappointingly empty creature behind in her barren, empty cell and return to his life.

 

His violin was a Stradivarius. She will always be.

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Tomaso Giovanni Albinoni's Concerto a Cinque in D Minor for Solo Oboe and Strings, Op. 9 while writing this.


End file.
